Eight o'clock
by aragon asten
Summary: He looked up. She looked down. She never once saw him. What lengths will he go in his obsession to hold her fast to him? VP REMAKE on ACID.
1. You who never arrived

**You who never arrived**

You who never arrived

In my arms, Beloved who were lost

From the start

I don't even know what songs would please you, I have given up trying

to recognize you in the surging wave of the next

moment. At the immense

images in me--the far-off deeply felt landscape,

cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected

turns in the path

and those powerful lands that were once

pulsing with the life of the gods--

all rise within me to mean

you, who forever elude me

You, Beloved who are all

the gardens I have ever gazed at,

longing. An open window

in a country house--, and almost

stepped out, pensive, to meet me.

Streets that I chanced upon,

You had just walked down them and vanished.

And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors

were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,

gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?

Perhaps the same bird echoed both of us

Yesterday, separate, in the evening…

---Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

* * *

It was two minutes to eight o'clock. 

Perfect. The time was just right…

His eyes flashed queerly as his cloaked form stepped across the threshold of the mansion's woods. Messy brown bangs obscured the features of his face--highlighting the glint of his round glasses and hiding the tense muscles which decorated his cheek. Silently, cautiously, with outmost calculation, his two brown boots sidestepped a possible noisy crackling dry leaf, possible vocal injured night insects and other woodland debris which will prevent him from quietly reaching his usual hiding spot.

…there, behind the mango trees...where the ever dancing leaves will hide his every movement, and the thick roughened bark will camouflage his mud-colored silhouette.

Perfect! How every thing seemed to work for him--as it had done so for the past months. The gods must be blessing him.

With a beginnings of a smile teasing his lips, he maneuvered his way into the spot, making himself comfortable, making sure that his eyes will be able to see everything. Everything!

Taking one last look at his gold pocket watch, he readied himself for what was to come.

And he waited…

Crack. Swish. Sigh. Overhead a owl hooted.

And there _she_ was!

As quiet as a shadow, her elfin boots trod the woodland clearing. It was the middle of a moonless evening, and yet her figure seemed to resonance with a silver glow---her long, thick braided hair the threads of which were the loveliest of all silvers, lighter than the lightest sapphires, her skin the palest of all ivories, icily translucent and hinting of something that was more than flesh, more than blood…

His own flesh heated up, blood flowing across his veins, filling his head in a dizzying rush. Hidden by the shadows of the trees, he watched her--the muscles in his eyes following her every move.

And she had frozen now.

In the middle of the clearing, her luminescent form was lighting up the ground like a moonlit fountain. She was gazing up at the cloudless sky! Sigurd was there Clinging to Brynhild, like a lover, the faint twinkling of their stars like a sprinkling of sugar across velvet. Alive and yet so distant. Like _her…_

He was now hopelessly lost in a maelstrom of emotions. In his mind, he was already making seas of poems, valleys of arias and symphonies and sonatas, trenches of prose about how her multi-colored eyes reflected the distant sheen of a nebula, how the soft swell of her breasts rose and fell against her chest with each breathe, how the light cool breeze caressed the satin skirt beneath her, in turn caressing her skin, rippling waves which mirrored the silhouette of her long, supple legs.

He was cold and hot at the same time. His heart rate hitched up, and the release of his breathe was at the brink of a pant. Gloved hands gripped the bark of the wood tightly, every inch of his body tensed up, and trembling. Goosebumps riddled his skin.

She had closed her eyes now. Her chin tilted up revealing the smooth slope of her neck. White hands wrapped across her frame, keeping aside the chill that the breeze slathered her with--tiny pinpricks across her cool, cool, naked arms.

He leaned closer, half off his face becoming pressed up against the rough tree limb. Lips mashed against the rough bark, every cell in his body straining to go to her. But the tree and his own hands restrained him. And the only thing he could do was watch her, and imprint each aching second in his mind so that he could review this scene ever hour, every minute, every second he had until he could see _her_ once again.

_Her. _His goddess.

So inhuman. So cold. And so, so desperately perfect…

She had already left.

Exactly ten minutes after eight, she had unwrapped her arms, opened her eyes, and with a sigh, left the forest clearing as quiet as she came--in a hush that befits the room of one dying.

With a ragged breathe, his body collapsed, only the hard mango tree trunk steadying him, keeping him from falling to the hard, woodland floor.

* * *

A/n: This was meant to be a remake which veered off into an original fiction. But since it took so many elements out off the game, I felt guilty and decided to post here instead. So... if the following chapters do scare you. Its alright. I understand. 


	2. SemiCicadas

**WARNING: This is the part I told you about, where it veers off to original fiction land. So… please don't kill me. Flames are expected. Just…don't kill me yet. I have to finish this obsession before I implode.**

* * *

**_SEMI_/CICADAS**

_Yagate shinu_

_Keshiki wa miezu_

_Semi no koe_

_(There is no sign in the cicadas cry_

_That they are just about to die)_

_---Mujo Jinsuko_

* * *

Her name was Sofya.

And she was the worst maiden a young mage could have ever fallen in love with.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon in the day of Woden.

With deceptive ease, she sat upon the floor, back upon the walls of her room, her knees bent at an angle which could easily spring up into a standing position--best for an ambush, or at least an uninvited guest.

More than ready, she was handling her sword, Lokapassaa, flexing her arms while slicing the air with short, smooth strokes. She watched each movement carefully, her eyes now deepened to an opaque pewter, darkened by the black curtains and the absence of live embers kindling upon the hearth. The smell of sacred oils wafted through the darkened chambers, emitted by the lavender breastplate she wore, along with the shoulder pads, the hand guard, the adamantine helm…

She had just oiled them. Rusty armor was at best a hindrance, at worst a death sentence. It was always best to be prepared. Time did not make allowances for the lackadaisical. And she--more especially because she was the Third--made it a point to engrave that virtue upon her existence. Or else she would die.

Not that she wouldn't die eventually. But at least, she would have fulfilled her purpose.

_Unlike them.._

She gave a sudden start.

The shrill scream of a whistle pierced through the deathlike hush of her room. Her eyes widened. Lokapassaa was quickly sheathed at her hip. In the space of a split second, she sprang up and flew towards the massive elm doors, easily flinging the heavy material aside.

She looked around.

Sunset Rays. Wide hallway. Gilded portraits. Displayed artifacts. Floor to Ceiling windows. Gossamer curtains swaying with the twilight breeze. Normality.

And yet the whistle blew on!

Unconsciously, Sofya's hand strayed to the hilt of her sword as a cloud of bewilderment surrounded her-----which was crushed a second later by the spark of realization which lit her silver eyes.

Body tensing in anticipation, her graceful form straightened. With swift purposeful strides, her armored elfin boots strode towards the mansions main hallway, up the magnificent gilded staircase, and straight to the gold doors of _the room _on the east wing.

She scanned it carefully. It was wide, tall and broad---reaching approximately fifteen feet in height, six in width and a foot in breadth. From a distance it was a monstrous spectacle. In front of it, the door was even more so. Carved in the gold were scenes of the gods, of the land's bloody history---decapitated heads and fair maidens scattered liberally across the expanse.

Who knew what waited for her behind those doors?

Taking a deep breathe, Sofya The Third, pressed pale sturdy palms at the gilded facsimile of a Frost Giant. With a minutest amount of force, she pushed at its heavy frame.

Soundlessly, it drew back, opening her way towards the mansion's throne--a regal , red-carpeted place as gilded and monstrous as its entrance door.

"Third."

The curt masculine voice alerted her to the presence sitting upon a chair beside her. Angling her head, she swept a glance to the figure behind the voice. Dressed in refined clothing, was a man of indeterminate age. The lines on his face, the grey of his hair and the crows feet beside his eyes spoke of old age. Yet the robustness of his lithe muscular frame and the ruddiness of his complexion, bespoke of the agelessness of youth. Despite this doubt, he clearly exuded power.

Knowing this, Sofya, in a quick gesture turned her body towards his and gave a low, low reverent bow.

He didn't answer.

Gazing at the crown of her head, he left her to stay in that position for what lasted like a minute, letting the rule of his authority settle all over her.

She didn't complain, didn't tense. She never moved a muscle.

Seeing this, he let out a small smile and the slight nod which freed her enough to straighten her back and gaze at him with a calm expression.

He gazed back, traces of his satisfaction lingering on his lips. Lifting his left hand to massage his temple, he let out a smooth inquiry, "This is your first time to be summoned, am I right?"

His right hand lifted up to gaze at the copper whistle he held in his palm. Her eyes strayed towards it, recognizing her insignia. She didn't recognize the sound when it called her back in her room, but the sight of those two engraved feathers struck her and brought her mind back to her task.

"Yes, my lord," she answered evenly.

He nodded at that, face becoming serious again. "Do you know why you were brought here, Third?"

She bowed apologetically. "No, my lord…"

He quirked an eyebrow.

"…but I do I have an idea, my lord, obtained from news from the east," she added hastily, lifting wide eyes at him.

He let out a sardonic chuckle. "That is good. I didn't raise you an ignorant soldier."

Leisurely standing up to his feet, he strode to the latticed windows, and looked out at the eastern sky---the bluish, darker side of the sunset afternoon---with his back to Sofya, hands resting as loose fists upon his hip. "And the time has come for the world to benefit of your training."

With his back still turned to her, his right finger raised in a gesture to beckon her close.

"The time has come." Obediently, she walked towards him in easy strides.

"…The time we have long dreaded and knew would certainly arrive."

Sofya looked out of the window, and gazed at the scene before her. The rest of the mansion, the woods, the endless array of villages and cities were scattered across the panorama of darkness and shadow.

"You know of what was written, am I right?" She didn't answer and instead looked at her lord's face and saw the creeping gloom.

Sighing an old man's weary sigh, he lifted his right palm to press at the glass. "The gods shall forsake us. The kingdom shall fall. And men and men shall wage war with each other."

Curling his hand into a fist, he made a rending gesture, as if to tear the scene before them--the village, the mountains, the woods…everything…

"The time has come when all life shall be rent asunder and all shall be reduced to nothing."

With a sad smile, he faced the maiden by his side. "And together we will face it." He lifted his hand and laid it on her shoulder. "Are you ready, Sofya?

She looked at him.

At once, she felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder--along with the task before her feet. At once, she made a vow to bind her. She must not fail. The gods have forsaken them. She must make her own faith, spin her own wheel…

She nodded at her lord.

The reason she lived was for this purpose.

"I promise you father," she vowed in words both deep and dreadful. "I will not fail."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The capital Parabellum lies in the eastern side of the Marsh Mountains... fifty-five miles if you try the long way around… it would take two weeks to go there on foot, Sofya!"

The silver-haired maiden, sitting on one chair in the armory, glanced at the owner of the irate voice.

"Do not fret, Lady Bellum. I do not intend to waste a week on such an arduous journey," Sofya muttered curtly, polishing her armor, as she spoke.

But Lord Od's mistress and assistant stood up from her chair, shook her curly blonde locks, narrowed her eyes and mockingly asked, "Then what do you intend to do, _Oh_ so mighty Third? Fly?!"

The _Oh so _mighty Third gave her a quick side glance, and shrugged indifferently. "Perhaps."

Bellum's jaw dropped.

"Sofya!" she cried out angrily. "You are _not _a god!"

Sofya's hand stilled for a moment. Her hands curled into a fist.

"The gods are not all-powerful, Lady Bellum," she let out tightly, her eyes glinting.

Noticing the sudden blackness of her mood, Bellum shook her pretty golden mane once again, scolding gently, "That is besides the point, Third. What I want to know how you are going to travel through bog, roads, and mountains without going on foot."

Sofya turned her back on the blonde, polishing her helm once more, the momentary pique gone. "I do intend to fly, Lady Bellum," she spoke calmly.

Bellum almost tore her hair out. "Sofya!" she wailed helplessly.

Sofya sighed. Carefully laying down the armor upon a velvet case, she stood up and approached the magnificent display of shields on the wall. "Lady Bellum," she spoke evenly. "To clarify that statement and relieve your distress, I will inform you that I intend to enlist the services of a certain mage in the nearby city of Kalkir. He is a man--a professor of magic famed for his enchantments--and most of all his expertise in teleportation. Using his skills, I will be able to infiltrate Parabellum and take control of the capital in half the time and effort."

Lady Bellum merely stared.

Minutely unnerved by her reaction, Sofya added, "Do not worry. His services will only last as long as the amount of time he needs to get me to Parabellum. I do not wish to be bothered with another being's presence. So do not worry about precaution."

Hearing that, Bellum shook herself out of her trance and started frowning at some abstraction. Looking up at Sofya face, she began carefully, "That is what I have wanted to talk to you about, Third…" She laid a hand on Sofya's adamantine shoulder pads. "What has Lord Od told you about your task?"

Sofya's memory drifted to their conversation a few hours ago.

"_And together we will face it…Are you ready Sofya?"_

Sofya shrugged. "…The Lord Od told me the generalities."

Bellum nodded, walking off. "I see." Taking a short sword from a wall, she examined the blade absently, her eyes growing serious. "Sofya… you need to gather an army."

The Third started at that, her silver eyes growing wide. "What?"

Bellum nodded once more. "Lord Od decreed that a small army hand-picked and led by the Third is necessary for this war. This will be your main task, Sofya the Third."

Sofya's eye flashed. "Why does this task require me to gather…companions?," she coldly inquired, her facial muscles tensing up at the last word.

"Because we need, them Sofya--"

She cut off the blonde's words, with an angry whisper, "Dunya and iLya worked alone!"

"And they died," Bellum retorted viciously.

Sofya looked away, her knuckles tightened into fists, "Unlike them I shall fulfill my purpose."

Bellum's face softened. "Then fulfill it, Sofya the Third," she said smoothly. "Lead your army."

Sofya stood frozen beside the wall, her eyes blank with ire and her tall frame seemingly stretched to the rack. After what seemed like a moment, her body finally relaxed and she turned her attention back to the weaponry on the wall.

Noticing this, Bellum went back to her previous position in the chair, relieved enough to joke. "Think of this way. You are comparable to the beautiful Valkyries of the Aesir. Gathering the souls of the brave dead for distant Ragnarok"

"I will not be compared to a god, Lady Bellum," Sofya spoke in her usual cold manner, as she handled one blade.

"But Gods do not die, Sofya!"

Sofya however did not deign to reply.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"LUTHER!! DON"T!"

The bespectacled young man gazed at his former teacher with no emotion in his blank amethyst eyes.

The dying man gave off a slight wheeze, his chest punctured by the wolf bite marks marring his chest. He lay upon a clearing in the forest nearest the city.

"Don't leave me here.. I can't move…Luther… please…," he begged hoarsely at him, clutching at his body desperately as if to hold off the life's blood slowly seeping away from his frame and unto the ground.

The young man merely lifted an eyebrow, one hand lifting up to adjust his round glasses, and his mouth opening to drawl out in a mocking tone, "But you can always teleport, Professor. Aren't you the best mage in this town?"

Tears leaked out of the old man's eyes, and he broke down in a thready sob. "Luther, my boy. Have pity on me. I'm your old teacher. Please... Five years you've been under my wing… I taught you so mu-" His words were cut off by the sight of Luther turning his back on him and casually walking off back to the direction of his tower indifferent to the old man's pathetic plea.

"Luther!!" he cried out, in a last attempt. "Don't leave me! I'm more useful alive than dead!"

The young man stopped.

With bated breathe, the old man waited for his sentence.

After what seemed like eternity, Luther Valhel slowly turned around. His glasses glinted.

The old mage's eyes grew wide as his former student approached,

Looking down at his bloody middle-aged frame, Luther smiled. "Perhaps you are right, old fool." With a merciless grip, he took one of the injured man's arm and roughly dragged him across the gravelly soil.

Gazing towards the darkness of the forest around him, his purple eyes gleamed queerly, as he dragged the semi-corpse along the road that led to civilization.

"Perhaps you are right."

* * *


	3. Valkyries

**Valkyries**

_Maidens excellent in Beauty_

_Riding their steeds in shining armor_

_Solemn and deep in thought_

_Their white arms beckoning_

_-Icelandic Eddas_

The city of Kalkir was a straight half a days journey from the Mansion. Populated by a mere six-hundred citizens in a sparse bit of land sandwiched between the Dryaheim Forest and the massive wall of the Marsh Mountains, it was considered a tiny and isolated scrap of settlement. Despite this, Kalkir was renowned all over the West—not because it was a port town (sea was a hundred miles away), not because it was a trade center (new stocks arrived only twice a month), and most especially not because it had the latest Midgard technology (it was medieval at best). The sole reason travelers from all over the world made the onerous journey to this secluded place was because of one unmistakable fact. Kalkir was the axis of the oldest power harnessed by man. Magic…pure, beautiful magic.

"Ha-ha! I learned how to cure mother's wart yesterday. I'm _soo _good!"

"You think that's good? Hah! Can you add one more leg to Trevor?"

"Your spider? You added one leg to _my _Trevor?!"

"Yeah!! Now he has nine!"

"Why you…"

A hooded figure clad in black turned her head towards the childish argument three feet in front of her. It belonged to two boys of about ten summers roughhousing on one of Kalkir's paved street—messy brown hair, snub nose and a liberal splattering of freckles. So innocently ordinary…

Hidden by the thick hood, the usually stern face let out a tentative smile.

Single-handedly gathering an army was a hard task for Sofya, considering how her isolated existence quelled her every move, considering how hard it was for her to connect to people so different from her. It was almost impossible given her tendency to shy away from the rest of humanity.

_But I guess I could bear children. They are so dear…_

"It's staring at us!"

Her well-trained hearing perked up at the sound of the suspicious childish whisper.

"Shut up, pig-face! It can hear us, too," cried the other in a frightened hiss. And indeed, they were frightened. Those big, brown eyes, were gazing at her in fear, their earlier argument forgotten at the face of this shared terror.

_IT?_

Bewildered by this, Sofya stepped towards the two to ask why.

"Aaaah!" they yelled simultaneously, running away in horror.

Sofya stared at the small retreating figures. What happened? What did she do?

But before she could shake her head to let the incident dissolve from her mind, a wisp of tobacco smoke filtered through her senses. It had been there for some time already, she realized. And it was very nearby!

Angling her head, she noticed a young woman, barely five feet away, leaning on the door of what looked like a small boutique. She was dressed oddly: a multi-hued tunic and a ripped skirt---definitely not in the manners of the present. Her brown eyes flashed gaily at Sofya. Meanwhile, from her smirking, red lips blew away a grayish stream of smoke. Her rosy fingers gracefully held a thick smoldering tobacco. Sofya gazed at her in mild interest, wondering…what the gleam in the stranger's eyes meant.

Finally, the young woman spoke. "They were frightened."

The hooded figure tilted her head.

The young woman interpreting it as an inquiry, elaborated calmly, "Those boys were frightened of you. Gary and Pipe mistook you for a Morg."

But there was no reply.

Painted eyebrows rising in mild irritation, the woman once again spoke (albeit a little testily), "You don't know, Morgs? Undead from the East? Hooded and Cloaked in Black? Deadly and capable of turning you into another Undead? Surely you've heard of them!"

"I have."

The young woman gasped. Her brown eyes widened.

A female! The mysterious figure was a female, the young woman realized in shock. She had assumed it was traveler from odd parts, but most certainly male. But not this one, she thought. A male would never have a voice as deep and as eerily beautiful as that—both harsh and feminine. And presently, layers of impatience were emanating from the aura of the hooded female's form.

"Goodness!" she gasped. "How long have I stared!?"

Lowering her eyes and hurriedly clearing her throat, the young woman nervously approached the cloaked female and politely tugged at the black fabric.

"Wearing this attire in Kalkir is unadvisable, lady."

"Then what do you advice?" Sofya politely asked.

The young woman shrugged. "Take off your black robes. Then change into a clothes more befitting those of a traveler with a penchant for hiding her countenance." Covertly, she tried to peer inside the darkness of the hood, hoping to have a glimpse of the female with a haunting voice.

Too dark!, the young woman wailed inwardly, trying to hide back a disappointed pout.

Meanwhile, an almost imperceptible nod seemed to emanate from the hood, as if the figure was seriously considering the suggestion. After two seconds of deliberation, Sofya inquired, "Young lady, can you point me towards a certain shop where I can purchase such items?" Surprisingly, the young lady laughed.

Beaming from ear-to-ear, disappointment forgotten, she strutted towards the shop window she was found leaning against minutes, all the while cleverly twirling the smoldering tobacco on one hand. With the other, she pointed her thumb towards a sign.

_Emille's Boutique—fabric and armor for all occasions!_

Emille grinned. "You can try mine!"

-------------------------------------

"…really, really sorry I gawked at you like a circus spectator a while ago. I actually mistook you for a male! It was perfectly reasonable to assume, of course. Lots of strange travelers come to Kalkir all year round---it gets kinda predictable sometimes, lady, if you ask me. And I do get my fair share of these bothersome males, all the time. But what can I do? A girl must do her best to act like a good host, and _entertain _her guest, if you know what I mean…"

Sofya understood, but she could have cared less, her mind automatically shutting off Emille's gay but useless chatter as she surveyed the boutique she was obliged to waste more or less fifteen minutes inside.

It was artful, she decided. The colors were bright and cheery, designed to attract customers and highlight the dresses displayed all around. And feminine, Sofya added, noticing the bouquets of flowers and girly knickknacks scattered here and there. The afternoon sun glinted off the dozen mirrors hanging on each corner giving blatant evidence of the owner's penchant for vanity.

"…name's Emille, by the way. I'm named after my father Professor Emilio. And in case you didn't know, he's the town's most skillful mage-slash-teleporter in town! But that's not always a good thing. I mean, its bad enough that he's the best in the place, but he also wants me to be better! But I always tell that old man no!" Emille then let out a mock whine, "What about my customers, Father!? What about those poor Kalks in need of quality clothes!" She grinned. "By the way, I'm Kalkir's very own clothing retailer. But of course you already know that. You look smart. I mean, your hood looks smart. Anyway, I wish your hood had a name. Do you have a name? But…bah, nevermind. I think your one of those elf-type folk. Names are powerful tools, they say. Once you have them, you own them. Bunch of wishwash, I tell you. Dozens of those young bucks have desperately mooned out my name a hundred of times. But did they enslave me?! Hel no! A modern lass must know how to fend these fools off, if you know what I mean…"

Sofya knew how to kill these fools was more appropriate. Scanning the interior in mild interest, Sofya acknowledged the loveliness of its furnishings. But it displeased her nonetheless, innately disapproving of the lack of security the store had:

Wide windows were perfect for robber getaways. The lock on the door was fashionable but flimsy. Even if the bolt was securely fastened, the glass doors could easily be smashed to let any intruder inside. Also, the list of possible weapons inside were depressingly scarce—a complete no, no to Sofya. Of course, the fabrics and threads could be used as strangle material. And if shattered, those mirror could be useful projectiles to any violent threat. But the sheer size and quantity and disturbing fragility of those mirrors were a foil, in itself. Imagine an earthquake, a loud noise, any heavy disturbance. And all those mirrors would come falling down, littering the floor in a thousand lethal spikes injuring everyone in the vicinity.

It was so, so depressing, Sofya thought. Shaking her head to rid of such upsetting thoughts, she strode to the racks where clothes were displayed.

…lacy underwear, velvety ball gowns, day dresses, and (in true Kalkir fashion) shimmering magic robes…tunic, queer green bandannas, scarves…cloaks! 

With a satisfied grunt, Sofya eagerly threw off the black shroud and reached for one mud-colored garment. It was thick, coarse and large enough to hide the bulk of armor she wore everyday. Surely, her shiny gilded armor and feathered helm wouldn't be noticed… And of course, her less than normal features would be hidden as well. Perfect!

It was a rather convenient purchase, she thought as her hand pulled the cloak form the hanger.

Then she froze.

With one fist curling inside the rough fabric, her mind suddenly registered a change in her surroundings…Emille… Her loud chatter was gone!

Turning around, she was surprised to discover Emille staring at Sofya's face, body frozen still and one manicured hand raised to her mouth. Rather similar to the look Sofya received outside the shop, just minutes ago.

But it was quite, quite different. It had shock, yes indeed. But it also had a hint of fear, and wonder, and awe and admiration. But to her dismay, Sofya realized that it was overflowing with veneration.

Sofya's black face minutely furrowed into a frown. Seeing this, Emille's trance disappeared and she started. Her brown eyes grew wider. Then to Sofya's infinite shock, Emille did something she had never expected would ever come to pass.

Emille bowed. Then, she collapsed unto the floor a second later. Knees bent, head low, her body was cowering in the floor in utmost display of fear and worship. She trembled before Sofya, breathing heavily, lying pitifully on the floor like a worm squirming before creation.

Frowning heavily, Sofya advanced one step. To which Emille reacted rather violently. Head flinging up, her eyes beseeched Sofya despairingly. Using a voice that was neither gay nor bantering. Emile spoke reverently…shakily…

"Forgive me. My actions have been unspeakable! But I beg of you, please forgive me…"

Sofya's mouth slightly dropped in astonishment.

Emille continued, "Had I known what you truly were, I would have shown you the respect a being such as yourself deserves!" She bowed her curly brown hair to the floor giving in to sobs. "…I have dreamed of meeting one like you for such a long time. But I knew that I was not noble or heroic…or deserving of such honor. And now to see you!"

"W-what do you mean?" Sofya whispered.

_Does she know? About me? About my mission?! _

Emille looked up with ecstatic brown eyes.

"It is an honor to finally meet you, Lady Valkyrie!"

Sofya's body froze. Her heart skipped its beat for a moment.

Then as quick as lightning, Sofya lunged towards Emille's form. One hand grasped her curly brown hair, violently pulling it until her tanned neck lay vulnerable. The other unsheathed Lokapassaa and swiftly had its sharp end point towards Emille's jugular. Sofya's cold silver eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened in anger.

Emille lay arrested with her eyes wide, too much in shock to do anything.

Meanwhile, Sofya's gaze glittered dangerously, as her full mouth viciously hissed, "I'm not Valkyrie." She dragged Emille's head closer, until the blade end was at the very brink of piercing the flesh. "Or God. Or Elf. Or Human."

Emille's eyes widened and a question came through transparent in her brown eyes. _Then what are you?_

Sofya's eyes grew wide and she froze.

A second later, Lokapassaa slipped from Sofya's fingers. It dropped with a resounding clang across the floor, its metallic sound reverbating across the whole area. The sound awoke Sofya from her trance and with a quick gesture, she picked her sword, sheathed the blade and moved off. Her face was blank once again. All emotion drained from her features; her body relaxed as it had once been.

Grabbing the mud-colored cloak over her, she threw it all over her shoulders and with an indifferent shrug, she threw a handful of gold coins on the floor.

-------------------------------------

Luther glanced at his room. It was oddly fashioned chamber. One side was angular while the parts closes to the windows were wrought in a circular bent. But it was reasonable. His humble abode was a tower. The tallest, strongest man-made structure the west side of the Marsh Mountains.

Or not… Man-made structures implied manual labor. And his tower was certainly not that… Valhel Tower was bent and shaped and strengthened using his art. _His _art. Kalkir's greatest, most powerful living sorcerer.

"..where's that accursed watch?"

Viciously biting down a curse, Luther's eyes skimmed in irritation across his messy room. Book s and papers were scatteredabout bed and mantel. Along with discarded clothing crumpled upon the stone floor.

He rarely cared for order. It was only when things so commonplace as his watch began to need two hours just to find, that such a disarray irked his usually calm nerves.

Itching to just blast the whole area with lightning and have done with it, he fortunately just stepped over to the window to get a measure of fresh afternoon air.

He took off his round glasses. Choosing to sacrifice a clear view of the setting sun, he let the wind blow his heated forehead, and relax him. His face relaxed; the bloody sun casting a healthy glow on his otherwise pale complexion, unused to sun and daily trapped in cold laboratory dungeons.

The wind caressed his hair—cut short in the back, messy brown bangs left to grow and hide his features. Blown by the breeze, the soft strands tickled his forehead and jaw. He closed his eyes and chuckled.

…it could have been _her touching _him, caressing his face. She would be standing beside him. Her long blue-silver hair would be bound into a braid. Her silver eyes would be flashing at him as it was wont to do. He would lean closer and take her magnificent hair in his hands, undoing the strings, letting the silky threads fly free in the afternoon breeze. Then she would look away and gaze below towards the scenery below them—the Mansion to the north-west, Kalkir to the north east, and Dryaheim forest in the middle where Luther Valhel first glimpsed her face, her intoxicating beauty…_Her _his goddess.

…Then Luther could step closer to his beloved and gently wrap his arms around her from behind, molding her soft curves to the hard contours of his body. And then she would sigh. _How he wished he could know what her voice was! _Pressing her body closer to his, she would lean her head on her shoulder. Luther would then inhale the sweet, sweet scent of her hair. _Lilies, was it? _Cradling each other , he would then close his eyes, as he angled his head to press his lips against her soft, satin cheek…

A bloodcurdling scream pierced his daydreams.

Opening his eyes softly, he let his violet eyes fall to the edge of the window in an expression so wistfully sad. Calmly replacing the glasses, he walked to the edge of his bed and rummaged the soft expanse of his thick quilts and blanket, wrapped in utmost tranquility wholly indifferent to the painful shrieks that raged on from outside his room, emerging from some of his recently used dungeons below.

After a few more minutes, his gloved hand bumped a hard, smooth surface. Reaching out form underneath the mattress, he extricated what appeared to be a well-used gold pocket watch.

"Finally," muttered Luther, his good humor returned. Humming a rather light tune, he moved across his messy chambers, flinging open the exit doors.

It was exactly three-thirty five. More or less four hours before eight o'clock. He had not seen her in that clearing yesterday, owing to certain _disagreeable _matters that needed attending. Now he would!, Luther thought gleefully.

But still he had a few hours to spare…

The ghastly shriek of his undead professor struck him.

Lips widening into a characteristic smirk, Luther Valhel slammed the door shut and teleported out into the city of Kalkir.

---------------------------------

For all its smallness, Kalkir had impressive pavements.

Admiring the way the four o'clock afternoon sun reflected on the paved street, Sofya the Third paced across the wide avenue. Already moving as stealthily as possibly, still she cautiously weighed each step, careful of keeping the echo of her metal boots at a minimum.

She stopped.

Her hood whipped to the right. Loud sounds. Raucous Laughter. Quickly, Sofya spun to a shadowy spot behind a lamp post, and glanced at the varied shady characters drunk and drinking, reeking and swearing and bellowing and swaggering noisily inside.

Brutes…

Haughtily removing her presence from the putrid smell of the pub, she started to go off to the direction of professor's residence.

Sofya the Third would not assemble such foul beings for her army!

But then she tensed up in realization and stopped. One knuckle curled up into a tight fist.

_What army?_

Lifting her head to gaze out of the darkness of her hood, the bloody redness of the sky called out to the Third.

_If I was a Valkyrie, this mission would be less tasking._

A Valkyrie would merely soar down from Asgard, swooping low on the battlefields using her wings. She need only beckon, and warriors will come to her. With a flick of her wrist, thousands will rush to her side and flock towards Odin's banner—ready and able for battle; keen and eager to do what she willed.

But the Norns made her mortal.

With a trace of regret and sadness, an image of Emille burst unbidden in her mind. Poor, innocent Emille—once subjected to Sofya's vile temper. That brazen woman would just have to forget Sofya and recover by her own cheery self.

At the same moment, one reeling drunk crashed through the bar's door out into the streets, staggering heavily from the liquor. He had greenish-dyed hair and a purple traveler's cloak—one of those strange foreigners Emille mentioned. Leaning wobbly on a street post, he retched horribly across the shining pavement, in front of the Sofya's revolted gaze. A vile flood of vomit littered the floor, bits and pieces of the greenish yellow much striking the edge of Sofya's brand new cloak.

Sofya stepped back. A sickened gasp involuntary broke through her throat.

Upon hearing the minute sound, the fool lifted his head and bravely gazed at the hooded figure. The drunk leered at her—bits and pieces of his regurgitated dinner sticking in his teeth. Then without a single apology for this insult, he staggered back towards the reeking bar.

Sofya's gaze cooled to ice at the mess the drunk left behind. Turning her body slowly, she headed towards a new direction, far different from her earlier destination.

The Third will not demean herself to the level of those brutes, she vowed fiercely.

Her metal boots colliding purposely across the shiny pavement, she stepped towards a route she passed a few hours ago—far away from the house of the professors. It could wait. She could go back to that course later.

"But for now," Sofya whispered. "I'll beg her forgiveness first."

--------------------------------------

"W-what are you doing here?!"

Luther let out an indulgent smile at the brown haired woman huddled up on one corner of her boutique. "Why Emille? Not expecting to see me?"

Emille continued to stare at him, shocked, shakily stuttering, "B-but…y-you were supposed to be—" She suddenly cut off her speech with frightened choke.

Luther advanced slowly, his eyes glinting as he came closer. "Alive, you mean?" he suggested softly, knowing very well that it was the opposite of what she meant.

Emille shook her head absently, then realizing what she was doing, gave out a tiny squeak and immediately stopped. Luther let out an amused laugh.

"Emille, Emille…," he cooed fondly after a moment. "Always the chatterbox. Why can't you speak now? Your father would _so _disappointed…"

At the mention of her father, Emille's eyes narrowed and she lunged at his face. "What have you done to him?!" she roared.

Luther's amethysts eyes cooled to an ebony hue, easily dodging to one side, as he grabbed her wrist in a merciless grip on gloved hand. He hissed. "What do you expect would I do, Emille? What do you suppose I'd do to a man who seeks to destroy my precious tower?"

"You evil necromancer!" she cried, wrenching her arm away. "And precious tower, my ass. Father knew what you were doing—what you were planning! He told me you were performing evil experiments there! How dare you touch him." Her face crumpled. "He was only trying to…trying to help Kalkir. H-he was only t-trying to h-help you…and then you…" Wholly weakened with her encounter with first, the hooded figure and now, Luther, Emille sank to the floor, covering her face despairingly, quite overcome with sobs.

"The professor's not dead."

Emille quickly looked up. "But you said—" she hiccupped.

"I didn't say anything," he quipped.

"You spared him?" she asked in disbelief.

Luther gave a light shrug. "Of course.

"I don't believe you."

"How charming. The daughter wants his father dead," drawled lazily.

Ignoring his comment, Emille frantically searched his features, while relief filtered unto her own. "Why?" she asked moments later.

The bespectacled young man gave her an irritated glance. "He's my professor, you idiot. Why wouldn't I spare him?"

Emille bowed her head, as a relieved chuckle swept through her. "Of course..," she let out softly. Then she looked at him again, to ask, "Then…do you know where he is? He hasn't come home since yesterday, and he has me worried sick! He might get lost, or bitten or…There are wolves about! Dryaheim isn't as safe as it used to be, Luther, if you know what I mean."

He looked away and gazed towards the mirrored walls, admiring his handsome reflection before muttering absently, "He's in my tower."

"What?! W-why would he…"

"He's resting," Luther elaborated lightly. "He got bitten by those wolves you mentioned. My tower was closest to the site where he fell so I just opted to carry him to my home to heal his wounds, where he will remain for the time being to recover. And out of the goodness of my own heart, I suffered the indignities of coming here to inform you, knowing that otherwise, you would raise hel in town, urging people to attack my tower with your flimsy torches, practically forcing me to kill all of you and therefore reducing Kalkir's already pitiful population size." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And I doubt the professor would like that."

"Really?! Is that the truth?"

Luther cast her a dry glance. "Do you doubt me?"

"Well…," Emille trailed off, an embarrassed smile emerging on her lips. "I can't help it."

He raised an elegantly shaped brow and his mouth pursed in annoyance. Choosing not to reply, he walked around the place, scanning the place indifferently. His eyes dropped towards a rumpled piece of black cloth lying carelessly across the floor.

He reached for it absently.

"No!!"

His hand had barely glanced upon a thread, when Emille's furious hands grabbed the fabric from him. He glanced at the woman in shock, hands coming up to adjust his glasses. She wasn't looking at him, however, her frantic brown eyes softening slowly as she gazed fondly at what appeared to be a fine piece of hooded cloak.

"Has that vile tobacco of yours finally turned you daft," he drawled out mockingly.

Emille looked up and glared at him. "I'm not daft!"

He dropped his gaze towards cloth lovingly cradled in her arms like a babe, and let out an amused scoff.

Still shooting daggers at him using her eyes, Emille very gently folded the black cloth and laid it carefully upon a mantel. "Don't you have anywhere to go?" she spat in annoyance.

He yawned lightly. "I have an important eight o'clock appointment."

"Then why don't you leave the boutique while you're four hours ahead!"

He cast her shop a disdainful glance. " Of course my dear, This cheap shack you call a boutique doesn't deserve my presence." Sweeping his cape behind him, his boots made way towards the exit.

But just as he reached the glass doors, he halted.

"Emille?" he said softly, without bothering to face the woman.

"Yeah?"

"A…loud congregation of travelers from Rabanastra came to town this morning."

"So?"

Luther shrugged. "Knowing your distasteful penchant for 'entertaining' these guests in your own vulgar fashion, I suggest you prepare yourself."

From behind came a loud, exhausted sigh. "I'm not in the mood sorcerer. The one…stranger I met today was enough to last me a lifetime."

Luther turned to look at her in mild curiosity. "Hmm?"

Emille raised wistful eyes at him, which drifted towards the black cloth.

"She was so inhuman…so cold and so, unearthly beautiful."

Luther stared at her in irritated incomprehension, raising his brows.

Emille noticed that familiar look and shook her head wryly. "Never mind. Just take care of Father, Luther."

The bespectacled sorcerer flashed a gracious smile bowing, "Of course Emille. You can trust me to do that." Having taken his leave, he left Emille's boutique and strode towards an autumn afternoon glittering on Kalkir's shimmering streets. Outside, the rays of the fading sun glinted across his glasses in bloody flames. And he smiled.

"…how unfortunate you didn't take my advice, woman," he chuckled to himself. "Its always best to be…prepared."

The thoughts of the coming twilight hours filling his chest like a cup full of sweet, sweet wine, his own amusement cracked up. His chuckles gave way to a wild giggle, twisting and morphing into a manical laugh, distorting his voice beyond recognition. Lost in absolute merriment, he walked across the pavement towards the setting sun.

It was eight o'clock.

And Sofya was thirty feet away from the boutique, when she heard the piercing scream.

"Emille!" she hissed furiously, unsheathing Lokapassa in an instant. The lights of the nearby houses flickered in alarm. She didn't care.

_Save her Sofya! Make haste!_

Leaning her weight forward, she swiftly hurtled across the street like an arrow, her sword arrayed forward, slicing the air in a cutting lash, while the wind howled in her ear.

Reaching the door, she careened to a sudden stop, her cloak flapping violently behind her, as her eyes quickly gave the store's façade a careful once once-over. It was closed, pitch-black and now deceptively silent. No signs of forced entry. No broken glass. Beside it, the houses returned to their earlier state of normality, dismissing the cry as a normal part of a night that could not sleep just yet. There was nothing outside the boutique. Nothing to give way to the fact that a cry of terror had taken place inside.

_A dying scream, perhaps?_

Sofya gritted her teeth in rage.

"EMILLE!" she called out to the locked door. No one answered. The Third narrowed her eyes. Soon enough, one armored knuckle punched a hole straight towards the apex of the door. The glass in the door shattered.

Brandishing her sword, Sofya charged inside the store.

"…valkyrie…valkyrie…"

Sofya's eyes adjusted quickly to the dark room, unlit by neither sun nor candle. Nothing much seemed out of place…except for the shadow quivering on the corner below one mirrored wall. The next instant, Lokapassaa was quickly aimed towards the spot—the blade steadily pointed towards the figure.

"..v-valkyrie?" the figure sobbed in disbelief.

Sofya's eyes glinted dangerously. "Emille…," she whispered softly, looking down at her. Before she could scan her condition, an icy massive hand grasped Sofya's throat from behind!

"A-arrgh.." Sofya choked, her head pulled up towards the ceiling. Her blade fell from her fingers. Quickly, one of her pale hands reached out to clutch at the rotting arm trying simultaneously to break her neck and strangle her. She pulled with all her strength…No use!

Her eyes widened in horror. That can't be human! Too strong!  
Heart beating wildly, she elbowed the solid figure behind her back. It still didn't budge. To her dismay, two spiked hiking boots snaked around to step heavily on her two feet, pinning her to the ground. The other hand reached forward to clamp a vise around her two wrists.

_Trapped? No!_

She thrashed violently against the foul creature breathing hotly against her cheek. Her vision started to dim. Her brain was straining with the lack of oxygen. With an effort, she lowered her head an inch at Emille lying below her.

Poor, Poor Emille…Parts of her dress was shred to pieces, bruises were all over her body, and down below her feet, she was pinned to the floor by a heavy drawer crushing her legs.

"I'm sorry," Emille sobbed in an anguished draw of breath, unable to defend herself, unable to muster even the smallest amount of magic, only her frantic eyes seemed alive, boring deeply into Sofya's face in desperation.

Unable to bear that pitiful sight, Sofya raised her vision towards the mirror in front of her. Startled, her heart suddenly pounded on her chest, straining to break free in alarm.

The drunk man outside the tavern. Greenish hair. Purple cloak. Rotting.

_Undead._

A wave of unreality swept over her. Then with final resolve, she dug deep within her, letting out one last furious resistance. Putting all her strength, she fought for all she was worth, stamping her pinioned boots and flailing around so violently that the ground shook, the mirrors cracked, the furniture rattled and even her mud-brown cloak held fast by the monster's grip, tore and ripped apart from her frame—parts of the exposed flesh tearing apart in bloody, searing scrapes. She closed her eyes along with the failing of her strength, and the dimming of her vision.

After that last struggle, she ceased as one weakened, freezing in the undead's fatal embrace. With great effort, Sofya roused herself awake. Opening her heavy lids, her wide silver eyes blast its full icy glare upon his reflection on the mirror. Staring back, his wild inhuman eyes blazed at her from his sunken sockets. Then it, too, also froze, gasping hideously in horror.

Right in front of his vision—her hood and cloak ripped to tiny shreds—the full blinding blast of the armored Sofya the Third's equally _inhuman _image screamed back at this face.

With the last of her failing strength, Sofya felt her lips open and before she could even comprehend, her voice began to speak in the deep, reverberating volumes she never knew she possessed.

"I shall slay you cursed abomination of earth. I shall exact justice upon your soul."

The rotten vise grip the monster held over her unexpectedly loosened.

A split second later, Sofya's own hand tightened over those of the undead's and simultaneously slammed her own body into the mirror. The innumerable mirrors encompassing the store—already fragmented by Sofya's earlier struggle—all powerfully exploded! Emille screamed. Sofya lunged herself towards the girl. All hell broke loose as the sharp fatal spikes flew across the tiny boutique, while Sofya huddled on the floor, protecting Emille with her armored frame.

The monster roared.

His rotting putrid flesh torn open by the shard, he swung one oozing limb towards the two females.

Sofya's hand swung back. And along with it flew Lokapassaa!

Eyes wide with pain, relief and terror, the owner of the boutique watched the head of the undead fall to the floor in a gruesome arc.

Still overcome with horror, Emille looked up and she saw Sofya the Third in all her glory—shattered mirrors at her feet, a thousand silver pieces reflecting a kaleidoscope of lights from the outside which glittered unto her magnificent frame. Her armor shone. Her face was rosy with exertion. Her long blue-silver hair fell into a shimmering braid upon her feet. Her silver eyes flashed sternly as she gazed at the pitiful creature ruined at the floor. Huddled upon her corner, Emille stared and stared completely gripped in absolute awe at the beautiful being standing before her. Lost in the sight of Sofya, almost painful to her ordinary eyes, Emille felt her whole world collapsing and darkening beneath her crushed feet.

Moments later, Emille woke up to the stranger kneeling beside her. Wincing slightly, she moved her head and a rough texture ruffled her cheek. She glanced about and noticed that her head was cradled by the remains of her savior's mud-colored cloth. She shifted her head and looked all around. Emille groaned.

Her boutique! Her beautiful boutique was broken!

She was about to dissolve in a broken fit of weeping when she felt a presence stir beside her. She looked the stranger eye's in alarm.

_She's leaving!_

Panic-stricken, Emille weakly grabbed an armored knuckle. "Don't leave me!" Emille begged breathlessly.

Silver eyes gazed at her blankly.

The tears which threatened to burst earlier, quickly spilled out of her eyes. "I'm sorry you had to get involved. T-that man…He forced his way here. I barred him but he-he overpowered me…"

Emille's face crumpled. "I know…I know its all my fault. I get into these horrible habits of letting these men come in and… b-but… i-its…"

"Its not your fault, woman. That creature was one of the undead."

Emille gasped. "W-what?!"

Sofya stood from her spot, nodding minutely. Looking around, she measured the extent of the boutique's damage. It was bad.

Emille, however did not notice, being more occupied with muttering to herself. "So that's why… I've always wondered why that creature suddenly let you go.." In wonder, she looked at Sofya.

Sofya did not return her gaze, nor even deigned to reply. However, the silence which stretched spoke volumes.

_I shall exact justice upon your soul._

The words of an avenging Aesir. The words of a god purifying a defiled soul.

Presently, Sofya spoke. "Do you know of any place you can heal, Lady Emille?"

Emille shook her head desolately. "F-father is indisposed." Her chipped manicured hands fidgeted nervously on one ripped tunic.

Sofya's cool eyes swept her gaze around her ruined surroundings. "What are your current plans?"

Emille's eyes threatened to burst once more. "I-I don't know… This is everything I have… I'm no longer a student of Magic so I can't—am not allowed to fix it or go back…" she trailed off into a pained whimper.

"Then come with me. I have need of companions in my journey."

Brown eyes whipped up in utter shock. "What?!"

The armored figure let out a minute shrug. "If the offer was in any way offensive, then I must ask you to please disregard it."

"NOOOOO!!"  
Even ever unflappable Sofya started at the violence of her reply.

Emille realized this, withdrawing sheepishly. "I didn't mean it that way! What I mean to say is, its not offensive in any way. But… its just that…" Her voice lowered to a sigh. "I just don't understand why you would choose me…"

Sofya looked at the disheveled figure below her. At her strange ability to shift moods at a mercurial rate. At her odd penchant for travelers and odd clothing and that vile wad of tobacco hanging off her hand. Sofya gazed at her and wondered at the reverence Emille had for the gods Sofya had despised her entire life.

Finally, she spoke. "I do not know what _you mean._ But nevertheless, I still entreat you to consider my request. Help me fulfill my task, Lady Emille." Sofya's eyes softened. "For I think you worthy."

Emille froze.

For a moment, it seemed her heart had ceased its beating. Her mind whirled in sudden maelstrom of thoughts. Doubts, worries, anxieties… But even with her lifelong business lying in complete shambles, even with her father lying sick in a dangerous tower far far away…even with the doubt, uncertainty and possibly perilous journey the Lady in armor offered her, Emille couldn't deny it.

"I accept!!" she squealed giddily.

She was worthy of the Lady of looked like a Valkyrie! She was the happiest person in the world!!

-------------------------------------

Luther gazed at the destruction before him. All the mirrored walls were shattered, half of the shards scattered about the floor, and the other half were embedded in the clothes and furniture strewn and torn on the floor way beyond the repair of any lower level mage like Emille. Not that it would have mattered, Luther thought chuckling. Emille was already long in her journey towards Hel, the queen of the dead.

But still.

"Hmm… that creature couldn't have created that damage alone…," he murmured softly, his mind analyzing the pattern of the ruin upon the tiny room.

He glanced briefly at the shreds of bright and gaudy clothing which could only belong to one being. He frowned. Could Emille have put up a decent fight?

He shook his head. "Impossible… simply impossible…," he murmured once more, stepping indifferently across the _late _Emille's precious merchandise which were littering the scene. "I do not create low grade demons."

Sighing softly to himself, he sat absently across one of the few remaining intact mantelpieces on the store. He gazed at it contemplatively, absently noting how it had apparently survived the ordeal unscathed, not a single scratch was to be seen as if some virtue of protection had been laid upon it. Outside, the town clock struck _nine_ o'clock, the sound of its bell ringing ominously across the empty room. A cold feeling crept upon his chest.

_She didn't come…_

His goddess missed their special eight o'clock appointment.

It was the only explanation why Luther Valhel was momentarily wasting time on this pitiful area. Instead of experimenting on his tower, humming to himself, dreaming wild-eyed fantasies of the day when _she _and Luther will finally unite.

Rubbing his temples wearily, he laid the other hand on the mantel for support. And then time stood still.

Turning his head with aching slowness, Luther let his warm gaze gradually caress the black cloth his hand had accidentally touched.

_Lilies, was it?_

It was hers! It smelled like her—lilies and rain and a hint of that oil she used to rub her armor. Luther knew this fragrance like the back of his hand. It was the same fragrance which enveloped that small beloved clearing in Dryaheim every night after she left. It was the same scent which had sprung from the occasional scraps of her clothing which got entangled in the bushes—precious fragments of fabrics he had hoarded and worshipped in the most sacred parts of his altars.

It was her smell! She had been here! Right in this very place!

Instantly, his mind rewound to an interesting conversation earlier that day.

_"She was so inhuman…so cold and so, unearthly beautiful," _Emille had said. Who else in this entire world fit that description the most!? Undeniable proof that she had arrived. That her task had finally begun. That, finally she had been given decree to leave the Mansion…and the tower…and the forest… _him._

A sense of unreality swept over him He glanced around wildly at his surroundings, suddenly angry at everything that was in sight! Could she have touched on those things? Could she have tried on those fabrics?

Luther's mind whirled. Glaring enviously at the shattered mirrors.

Each and everyone of these mirrors had reflected her face—probably losing their selves in her beauty. Dizzy with her presence. As he was every time, he had chanced upon her every eight o'clock for the last four years.

He felt like dying, weeping, destroying Kalkir in a single blast of rage.

Tears sprang up his lashes. He fell to his knees.

"What are you doing to me..?" he moaned brokenly. "..And I don't even know your name…"


	4. Accidental

** Authors note**: I wrote this more than a year ago. Unfortunately, personal issues kept me from posting the remaining chapters.

I also had quite a struggle creating a new midgard with new geography, flora, fauna and history. I also struggled with keeping my characters original in spite of this being well a rather complicated fanfiction attempt. However, this story will always remain inspired by the game and the spirit of Lenneth and Lezard hopefully resides in my new characters. I hope you enjoy this part Old time gamers might recognize some familiar stuff. Have fun.

**ACCIDENTAL**

by diminutive x

**Accidental**

_The gods must have been playing_

_Cat's Cradle in a corner of night, last November_

_Stealing celestial strings from the lights of the quasars,_

_Looping threads alternately round_

_The waxen fingers of their hands._

_It was almost legerdemain_

_How intricate fingers were outlined_

_Through the shifting gestures of a finger_

_Unraveling a house, a dipper, a bird_

_We are those strings taken from_

_Stagnant stars when god's made use of time's weariness_

_Annihilating other strings entangled with us;_

_Strings indifferent to beginnings and ends—_

_Choking their fingers, lying atop each other_

_While extending in all directions_

_There is no prevarication, though; the gods_

_Didn't plan a tryst for the two of us, we always meet_

_At a familiar point, forming a junction_

_X-shaped when seen from above:_

_Like intersecting wounds on the ravaged face of a rebel_

_Like a decussated leaves on the stems of a rose_

—Alessandra Rose F. Miguel

DAPITAN vol. 1 no. 3

* * *

She was always running in front of him. Every beyond and ever unreachable, her lithe young form fleeing across the darkened fields. Her silver hair would be flying behind her, shimmering pale under the moonless night…And he sought it. That hair was his signpost. The light he desperately sought whenever the road became too dark for him to continue this race.

For it was always a never ending game between them. But once in a while, she turned her head back to glance back at him—the boy she left behind. Her hueless gaze would flash brightly. And her long clear laugh would echo across his ears.

_"Gods and Mortals, can't fall in love Lysander!"_

Overhead the two constellations glimmered and overlapped.

"The Valkyrie and the dragonslayer fell for each other," he'd stubbornly disagree as he tried to overtake her pace. "Brynhild and Sigurd DID."

_"And they died, Lysander!"_

"So what?" he'd cry out angrily.

_"It means that what you want is impossible."_

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would manage to catch up to her, grab her hand and pull her to him.

"You're not a god yet, my friend," he'd pant out breathlessly, blonde bangs obscuring his eyes. His blue eyes which were drinking in the sight of her face. "I can still catch you."

Then, her red lips would sit up into a trace of a smile, freeing her hands fro his grasp.

"_Then run for me, Lysander," _she would whisper. _"Run."_

And she would be back to running ahead of him. And after that, she would never look back.

--

"Wake up, sonny!"

A young man lying sprawled across one of the tavern's table gave an unintelligible moan.

"Hey kid!" the bartender repeated giving a slight kick to the young man's shanks. The blonde man gave a loud snore.

Erupting into loud guffaws the alcohol-hazed regulars of one of Kalkir's many many taverns slapped their legs in merriment and took another swig of West Midgard's hearty ale. Shaking his head in amusement, the old man walked towards the bar to grab one of that amber brew for himself.

It was the twilight hours in the bar. It was a peaceful time in Kalkir—in most of West Midgard. It was the sort of time people took for granted. The sort of time when all that the men worried about was their suspicious nagging spouses or whether they had enough money to buy ale for today—for such hours like these. The hours when all but the old regulars were left inside and everyone was drunk enough to called half-crazy and yet not drunk enough to refrain from exchanging their own brand of manly talk.

"This is no place for lads like ye," the bartender commented wryly to the unconscious blond, wiping some drops from his graying beard.

"Shut up, you old goat!" one severely bloodshot regular slurred. "Can't you see he's one of them knights from Rabanastra?"

"Rabanastra? Them travelers today?"

"Aye."

The bartender and the other remaining customers half-lidded eyes strayed to the tell-tale red armor that the young blonde wore. The former scoffed. "Keh. He's still a young 'un to me."

The others nodded in affirmative. One burly old man leaning heavily against the bar counter sneered through yellowing teeth. "Seems like, Rabanastra's knighting babes nowadays!"

One ruddy faced companion of his, added with a heckle, "That's no mystery—what with the Duke just one wench away from being a corpse!!"

Hearing that, the packs of drunks hooted.

Then that joke finally subsided, one of the most drunk of the rabble let out a cheerful garble while swallowing his eleventh bottle of beer. "Them travelers from Rabanas—(hic!) –tra told me the Duke is bunching up all the—(hic!) men he can find for the final war! It be happenin' now he says (hic!). And everyone's count'd in, be it horny ones…ruddy ones, young 'uns… big 'uns…," his head slumped heavily on the wooden table. A few seconds later, there was heard a distinct snore.

An uneasy silence filled the room.

After an awkward moment, where each tried to simultaneously down their drunks, and avoid each others gaze at once, the burly yellowish-teeth man ventured a joke. "Old Berkin…," he began however uncomfortably. "…his wife's nagging prob'ly hammered him daft. Spreading stupid wives' tales, eh? He looked around at the unusually quiet bunch. "…eh?"

No one bothered to reply.

Those who remained sober enough to stay awake, merely looked down, content to gaze thoughtfully at the lovely amber of the drink—the special Kalkir brew they had been enjoying most of their lives.

Presently, the bartender called out, absently wiping the surface of his counter. "…ye all."

The still conscious regulars looked up at him. The old man nodded.

As in a shared signal, they all prepared to go out, quietly dragging the slumbering ones behind them.

The bartender sighed.

It will be an early shut-eye in the tavern for this day.

--

Lysander wearily splashed some fountain water across his face, as he sat at the edge of the pool in the middle of the night, breathing heavily, his eyes as bloodshot as the red of his Rabanastrian attire.

He wheezed, rubbing his face vigorously. With a long squint, and a fierce shake of his head, he tried to remove the traces of alcohol which still clung to him. He groaned as the early vestiges of a hangover pricked at his temples. Soon a mild ache in his shanks and buttocks followed.

He winced. Apparently, for reason unknown, the tavern had closed early and that good kind bartender had unceremoniously dumped him here. On the plaza, in the middle of the night, even with the air of the eleventh month harshly biting his exposed skin.

He frowned at the pavement. It sure was shiny, he thought. But definitely not soft.

Sighing heavily, he struggled to stand up, placing a calloused finger over his face. "Why did I get drunk in the first place?" he grumbled to no one in particular.

The only one who answered was the faint tinkle of the fountain in front of him.

Noting the lack of reply his own brain wearily spoke:

_A new knight of Rabanastra must never conduct himself in such an appalling behavior. Fool. You said you wanted to change the world, didn't you? And you said you'd do anything! It took you five long years to come to this point! And now that you're a knight, what do you do?! You get drunk! Hah. You're absolutely pathetic. You really are! _

"I can't help it," he answered back fiercely. He gazed above towards the waxing moon, his youthful countenance contorted into one of agony. A second later, the icy wind blew across his short blonde hair, and he closed his reddened blue eyes.

He couldn't help it.

Lysander, knight of Rabanastra, couldn't help but feel a certain anguish. Nights like this always haunted him. When the two star-crossed constellations overlapped each other, it reminded him of the endless games he had played with a girl who had long ago died.

--

Sofya the Third laid a trembling hand over Emille's brow. The young woman was sleeping now—comfortably housed in the best inn the town has to offer. She needed it dreadfully. Even though her injuries were already healed by Kalkir's foremost mage-doctors, Emille was still heavily tasked by trauma and fatigue. She had a most tiring day!

Knowing this, the silver haired soldier sighed softly, her eyes softening along with the release of a breathe. Letting the tips of her fingers graze hesitatingly across Emille's face, she gently traced the lines of the young woman's features, committing that face to her memory as the fifth person she had ever known in her life.

_Father, Bellum, Dunya, ILya… Emille._

Presently, she looked up and gazed outside the room's window. The waxing moon smiled at her, gently bidding the lateness of the hour, and reminding her of long-overdue midnight training. Removing her wandering hand from her companion's form, she slowly walked towards the room's exit; sheathing Lokapassaa as her other hand turned the other knob.

She had accomplished much in the first day of her journey. Who knew what the morrow would bring?

…another warrior perhaps?

An unfamiliar sense of foreboding swept over Sofya as she descended the stairs of the inn. She frowned uncharacteristically unsure. She knew all about Midgard, but this was the first night she had spent outside the sanctuary of Lord Od's throne. For as long as she can remember, she had habitually spent each day training and each night, staring at the stars at the strike of the hour.

Was the unfamiliarity of the present circumstances the cause?

_No…, _Sofya disagreed in bewilderment. She had been trained to adapt to any situation. So what was the problem?

Biting her lip in uncertainty, she quietly passed the tavern's common room heeding not the other beings that were still awake, careful not to be seen lest they take interest in her uncommon garb. Her brown cloak was left shred to pieces inside Emille's boutique. Her black shroud was all but forgotten.

She stepped out the wide doors, and unto the cool bite of the air. Winter was coming.

She looked out to the sky, where the moon and the stars shone upon her armor and made the reflecting sheen of her eyes glimmer eerily white. She shivered.

…it wasn't foreboding. It was déjà vu.

--

"Glassine?!"

The little boy gave off a sharp indrawn breathe as he took in the sight before him. She had bruises again. Lying crouched inside a big boulder, which stood in the middle of one of the Duke's tenant-owned fields, his silver haired playmate—barely of seven winters—was covered in black and blue discolorations marring her pale skin.

He ran to her, skidding to a stop at her side, unmindful of the bits pf his skin scraped raw by the rough pebbles scattered at his knee. He crouched low beside her.

"Glassine…," he whispered softly, as he took a glance at her figure—at her knees drawn up, at her arms hugging herself and at the curtain of blue-silver hair shielding her face from his worried blue eyes. He absently lifted a hand to touch her.

She recoiled, curling further into herself.

A little whine escaped Lysander's lips. "Glassine…," he crooned impatiently. "Wha' happened?"

From beneath the cover of silver, the girl stubbornly shook her head.

Lysander sighed awkwardly and raised his hand to silently scratch his ears. "Why won't ya tell me?" he reproached her seconds, later. "I thought we're friends."

A slight sob burst from the girl. He started, drawing back in surprise. "Glassine?" he murmured in shock. Then his eyes widened. Did she say something?

Leaning closer, he heard an almost unintelligible moan in between her sobs. Finally he heard it.

"…mistress wasn't feeling well today…so she…" Glassine trembled in fright.

He gasped. Then he shook his little round fist in anger. "That witch!" he hissed. "She'll pay, Glassy!"

Or not…

His mouth pursing in disappointment, his fist fell into a limp heap by her side. What could two peasant seven year olds do with Nobility, however cruel?

But then, Lysander looked up and gazed at his trembling companion. At the black and blue bruises covering her arms. At the fading scars he just recently noticed.

He bit his lip, and opened his eyes wide so the tears wouldn't fall. He was a big boy now. Eight years old. It wouldn't do to be childish now. Forcing a smile upon his face, he poked her gently on the side. "Don't worry," he reassured her. "The gods won't allow ya to get hurt again."

Her sobs paused for a moment. "…the gods?" she hiccupped brokenly.

Finally noticing her interest, his eyes grew bright with glee as he pounded on fist to his chest. "Yeah!" Lysander announced proudly. "Uncle said that the gods are just and…and fair…and powerful!," he cried out, flapping his hands over his head. He leaned over and peered at her face behind the hair. "The gods will protect you, Glassy," he whispered solemnly. "They'll protect us!"

Her silver hair drew back to reveal brimming silver eyes. "Are you sure 'sander?" she sniffed.

He nodded vigorously, his fist falling to the ground. "I'm sure."

That seemed to reassure her for the moment. Her little round face peeked out the veil of her hair, as she lifted one pudgy knuckle to rub at her swollen eyes.

She sniffed loudly, causing Lysander to draw back in disgust.

"Eww…," he whined. "That's gross, Glassy!"

Glassine broke out into a wet chuckle, while rubbing her nose. She looked at him, her silver eyes crinkled into a smile "Tell me more about them 'sander."

"Who?" he asked in confusion, scratching head.

She laughed again, more gaily this time, lightly punching him on the side. "The gods, silly! Tell me more stories about the gods!"

--

"Glassine?"

The name burst forth unbidden from Lysander's lips, surprising the knight of Rabanastra himself. His red-rimmed eyes widened, stinging him with the cool bite of the late autumn air. But he stared on, gaze and thoughts momentarily fixed on the sight before him.

The plaza of Kalkir was quiet at this time in the night and softly laid in shadows. The only light which remained was the waxing moon floating above—illuminating the fountain, bathing the marble cherubs in pale hues, and painting each drop of the fountain into bright glints of silver.

And beyond that…was _she._

He felt his jaw drop in astonishment, wondering how in hel's name, did that name slip out at this time?

She was a blue to him, even. Her features were indiscernible through the constant shower of silver. He only knew that she was female because of the hazy curve of her silhouette…covered with armor?

One gloved knuckle reached out to rub at his eyes. Then he froze, realizing what a childish gesture that was. He swore inwardly, letting his hand fall limply to his sides. He was a knight of Rabanastra! It wouldn't do to be childish now.

He squinted with his eyes, trying to find reason within the image, simultaneously wondering if the six bottles of ale he had downed were making his mind soggy. It suddenly occurred to him that he was inexplicably rooted to the spot.

_Why?_ Something held him. _What?_

Something familiar… achingly familiar and infinitely dear.

"I have to get away!" his mind screamed frantically, upon realizing it. A gasp tore itself from his throat. It choked him, as he involuntarily fell a step behind, his eyes grown wide with panic. The muscles in his face twisted. Mirroring the inner maelstrom of his emotions which threatened to engulf his already alchocol drenched brain.

A sense of self-preservation rushed over him.

He stepped back. And then another. He tripped a step, then he swiveled. Then he turned around. With an agonized groan, his legs pumped up carrying him to a swift pace.

He ran! Lysander, knight of Rabanastra ran away for the first time in my life.

--

Sofya started.

That drunk fool was staring at her like he had seen a ghost. She frowned minutely, irritation creeping at her like that muscle twitching in her cheek.

She hated drunks—all of them! Even the tell-tale crimson of his Rabanastrian armor did little to lessen her intuitive disdain.

_Look away, you rude fool! _

However, the fierce glare she sent his way did nothing to remove those reddened blue eyes which had rudely glued to her face. She hissed in annoyance.

…It wouldn't hurt to use him as fodder for her sword, wouldn't it?, she wondered in aggravation. Then she froze.

He was…looking at her… Why was he looking at her like…that…?

Then he ran away!

Sofya's white gaze followed his receding form as he was slowly swallowed up by the distance and darkness—her heartbeat pounding hard against her temples. For some reason she was not as calm as she had expected to be.

It was there again. That odd sense of preordination. Of déjà vu.

Sofya felt it within her bones, quite as clear as the enormity of her task constantly drilling unto her psyche.

"He ran…away from me," she muttered thoughtfully. She had no knowledge why she knew, but there was something exquisitely wrong about that line.

--

"PUTREFACTIO!"

The stone floors of one of the dungeons in Luther's Tower shook with force, bursting forth angry trebles as the spell of psychic disintegration spread from the circle of runes etched upon the floor towards every crack and crevice of the chamber.

"CALCINA!"

A blast of wind slammed through the closed room, rifling the pages of the grimoires scattered across the floor, their edges stained with the splatters of freshly-spilt blood.

"PUTREFACTIO!!" the sorcerer repeated calmly, amid the chaos surrounding him, at his dark cape sweeping violently behind him and the wind throwing his brown hair into frantic disarray.

"CALCINA"  
With that last chant, an eerie green light soon grew from the center of the circle right below the platform where an elevated altar was placed. A freshly mangled corpse was lying upon it. With fresh blood still flowing freely from its innumerable wounds, the light below grew greater and soon a horrible high pitched keening began to wail across the room, far more hideous than any mortal sound.

Luther's lips curled into a smirk and his glasses glinted queerly reflecting the light, casting an unholy glow across his pale features. The reverse alchemy was working, he noted in satisfaction. As usual.

"…Knowledge, Woden wrought from pain. Then by blood, shall knowledge be gained…" he muttered softly, his face grotesquely twisting into a strange smile.

"Not my blood," he inwardly smirked.

Too long had he tarried in his tower, cowardice arresting him, leaving him content to just watch and wait. This procrastination giving life to beautiful and fanciful illusions but not once giving way to an act which will bind _her _to him. His talent, his greatness, his utter glory and might as Kalkir—nay Midgard's greatest sorcerer was a while forgotten. Luther Valhel reduced to simple laboratory experiments and childish playthings in his dungeons.

But that was the case no longer.. No longer.. Today's events in Kalkir made sure of that.

While these thoughts flashed like quicksilver across his cranium, his coal-rimmed violet irises observed the demonic shapes slowly emerging from the rune circle. Years of summoning had alerted him to the familiar scent of it. He smelled the spirit's hunger for blood.

Using one gloved finger to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, he approached it in utmost tranquility and a slight hint of glee. He bent down and snatched a dagger flung carelessly flung on the floor. Glancing at it briefly, he bowed and offered it to his impatient guest.

"By my hand, I offer thee payment…," he began.

Cardinal rule in summoning. A necromancer must always be polite.

_Goddess… you will soon be mine._

--

(Great thanks to the _Encyclopedia of Symbolism, Dictionary of Divination, the Norse Guide _andThomas Harris'_ Red Dragon_.)


	5. Dagger

Dagger

**Dagger**

My friend, you tell me:

Love is like a dagger,

Double-edged and deadly,

You offer the Other,

The Beloved, who can wield it

Either to protect you from an offensive world,

Or stab you deeply

When you least expect it.

Staggering, black and blue,

The hilt glinting on my back,

I cannot help but agree.

-Ralph Semino Galán

DAPITAN vol. 1 no. 3

* * *

I love you

I love you far too much, and far too greatly for it to be real. But it is real! I know that it is real. I feel the entire reality of my love in that shooting ache in my chest whenever I miss you. Whenever I contemplate the thought of never seeing you again. Even when I speak with you, I miss you. I ache for you. But parting with you, you are still in mind lingering, appearing several times a day. But none of those images gives me comfort. Only you, and you alone make me feel alive and happy. So happy that I lose myself inside of you. That I fear I might be swallowed up. And that I'll never resurface again.

I love far too much. Far too greatly. And in return, I too expect much. I long for much. I love you and I want you to love me just as well. I know that I'm overreacting. I know that I'm bordering on excessive. And I know that you could never love me in this same way. No. No one can love you as much as I do. But I don't ever want to burden you with these insane desperations, this intense longing. This… deep love which I know you will feel obliged to repay. But I cannot accept love so grudgingly given. I want your love to be given freely, freely from the bottom of your heart. I do not want you to feel burdened. I do not want to be disappointed.

The only thing left to do is to tear my heart away, because as of now I cannot unlove you! I cannot! I cannot! I've tried so hard, and so far I've been unsuccessful. The only thing left to do now is to drive you away. Or drive me away. Hoping against hope that this madness will fade away in time. I must, must MUST leave you. I must force myself to leave you, and even if I should rend my heartstrings in the process, tear myself from limb to limb just so I could bear with the acute pain which I know will pierce me the moment I leave.

So now I come to the purpose of this letter, indeed, the only reason I wrote this in the first place. I love you, Glassine. My darling, beloved bestfriend. But I'm afraid that I can no longer race with you in Lady Gorsha's fields. You would have to find a new playmate. I will leave tomorrow with the second regiment of Rabanastra to undergo my apprenticeship with uncle as a blacksmith. I am just barely fifteen summers. But he told me I should do well. I wish the same for you, too, Glassy. Forget me. Take care.

_-Your friend, _

_Lysander_

--

How could you do this to me, Lysander?! Did you know, I loved you, too. Did you?! You stupid, stupid ass, you've ruined everything. I hate you. I hate you!!

_-Glassine_

--

Lysander. I have no adequate words to express my deepest condolences to you. I heard from your uncle that she was the closest thing you have had to a sister, or if I may be allowed to assume, she meant much much more to you than that… And I understand a little of the anguish you are going through. I, too have lost a sister and a mother. The fact that her death was brought upon by such cruelty grieves me even more. Slavery should never have existed! Selling human beings like cattle is the most despicable thing in the world. Few beings could have endured such humiliation and torment. Least of all that beautiful fragile creature you deeply loved. But at least, take comfort in the fact that she is peaceful now, happily rejoicing among our gods.

But there are other kinds of comfort. One is revenge. The other is justice. But your grievances are not just the fault of one person! Midgard wronged you Lysander. Midgard wronged you and your beloved Glassine. Don't you think it is the right time to take vengeance upon Midgard? But nay, that will not change anything. The only comfort you could take is to lend your hand and your mind to changing our cruel world so that no more Glassines will die. Will you help us? Lend your sword to our cause. There are others like you, Lysander. I am one of them. Will you help us? I have offered my condolences. Now, I also give you a chance to change the world.

There will be other blacksmiths in the future. But if the present circumstances continue, there will no longer be any Glassines left. With that in mind, our group will parley at the hidden cliffs at midnight while the Duke's guards are asleep. I will be glad to hear your reply there.

-_Your friend,_

_Captain Abe _

_Second Company of the Leith_

--

Bellum. ILya has failed in her mission. Search for our new girl. I must have her anointed and prepared before the winter solstice. I will take care of the rest.

_-Lord Od_

--

I have seen you. And I realize now what those insignificant aspiring poets meant when they write above those foolish drivel they oh so ardently call love. But they fell short of mark. Love is not as insipid as that. I know I know! I have seen it! I have felt it. I have never given much thought on such things before… ..when I first glanced upon this tower, years after those profitable exploits in the East, my only thoughts… fulfilling those ambitions…

But now I find myself useless, paralyzed. I cannot think of anything else. Every second your face passes through my mind. Everything I see reminds me of you. I cannot attend my usual pursuits without it leading to thoughts of you. And it's driving me wild! What have you done to me!! I'm not like this. I have never been like this. You have made me into this insane lovesick dog ready to kiss your feet. I am urged to curse at you. My brain urges me to deride you, insult you. But I cannot. I cannot! My tongue is stayed as it has never been before. I cannot laugh at you. I cannot even speak. All that I can do is stare. Stare and long and wish and hope and go insanely mad. I am already mad. No I'm beyond that. But you've elevated my insanity to heights I've never known existed.

I want to kill and die for you! And it's only been a month! YES! A month. Walking through Dryaheim in my daily rounds of meditation. I had no idea this will forebode something that will change how I see the world. I saw you! You, beautiful, unearthly, achingly perfect you!

I love you! I love you! I love you! I worship the ground you walk upon. I wish I could hold you fast to me, absorb your essence, and suck you through my breathe until my whole soul is filled with your beauty. I want to own you. I want to have you. I want, need, and MUST have you. I will do anything to get you.

My whole life revolves around you now. Your face, your movements and your scent are now burned, etched and molded inside the crevices of my entirety. And I will never be complete until I have you within me. Until your soul, your body, your HEART is blended with mine. I must have you. I will have you.

Though I no longer care for those pitiful gods humans still trifle with, I shall still speak.

By Odin's hand, By Mimir's Pool, I swear to have you at any cost. By blood that no one—god, human or undead shall thwart me, that death herself has no means to hinder me until I have you within my grasp. Let this manifesto be written in blood and sealed with the ancient arts which lie deep in the roots of the world.

I will have you, I swear,

_Goddess… you will soon be mine._

_-Luther Valhel, Tower, the thirtieth day of the first month_

* * *

To you buttercake… mwuah!

--


End file.
